A Second-Chance Proposal. C.J. Carmichael

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      “I’m not a chef, darlin’, but I’d say you’ve been cooked.”

      Dylan smiled. A gentleman would probably retrieve the towel draped on a lounge chair near the hot tub, then turn his back as she slipped it around herself. But both options seemed kind of dull to him. He raised his eyebrows. Dare you.

      He faked a yawn. “This is real comfortable. Of course, if you were to offer me a room, that would probably be even more comfy. You said you had just one guest at the moment. Which means you’ve got a few rooms available. Why not put me up?”

      “Bastard,” she muttered. Then, even as he was congratulating himself on a hand well played, she added, “I’ve had enough.”

      She stood, and took her time getting out of the hot tub and replacing the lid. Her body gleamed. Taut muscles, curved lines, gorgeous legs. She turned from him to reach for her towel. Methodically, she patted off the moisture beaded on her skin—then tossed the towel on the chair again.

      “Good night,” she said, her hand on the patio door.

      So she was really going to leave him out there, with no transportation back to town.

      “About tonight…”

      “Yeah?” His confidence surged. After all, she’d once loved him. He’d once been her best friend.

      “There’s an extra stall in the barn,” she said. “If you’re desperate, you can have that.”

      Dear Reader,

      Have you noticed that the most wonderful, magical days come about, not as a result of careful planning and organization, but almost by accident? Serendipity is one of my favorite words. And the perfect example occurred several years ago when my husband and I and my two daughters, along with my husband’s father and his wife, were driving out to Kananaskis to enjoy “Mozart of the Mountain.”

      A bad traffic jam had us aborting our plans and heading instead for the small mountain town of Canmore. Within half an hour of turning off the highway, we were in a large yellow raft, drifting along Alberta’s Bow River. The day was warm and bright, we still had our picnic and the scenery, dominated by the Three Sisters Mountain, amazed us all. At the end of that perfect, unplanned day we were left with a memory to treasure forever.

      And I had the setting for a trilogy I’d been thinking about. The Shannon sisters have always counted on one another, especially since, like their mother, they seem to be unlucky in love. Three men are set to change all that, with three proposals as unique as the sisters who inspire them. I hope you enjoy A Second-Chance Proposal, A Convenient Proposal and A Lasting Proposal.

      Sincerely,

      C.J. Carmichael

      P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Please send mail to the following Canadian address: #1754—246 Stewart Green S.W., Calgary, Alberta T3H 3C8, Canada. Or send e-mail to: [email protected]

      A Second-Chance Proposal

      C.J. Carmichael

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Thanks to those who assisted me in my research,

       in particular Corporal Patrick Webb of the RCMP in Calgary,

       Constable Barry Beales of the RCMP Canmore Detachment

       and Lynn Martel, a reporter with the Canmore Leader.

      DEDICATION

      This trilogy is dedicated to my editors,

       Beverley Sotolov and Paula Eykelhof,

       with my thanks and affection.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHILLED CURRENTS of mountain air circled the Larch Lodge bed-and-breakfast and played on Cathleen Shannon’s bare wet shoulders. The cold autumn air only made the luxury of 104-degree bubbling water all the more pleasurable. Fitting her body to the sloped back of the hot tub’s molded seat, she gazed upward. A sky of restless clouds offered teasing glimpses of a fluorescent half-moon.

      This is nice. She took a sip of brandy from the plastic glass she’d brought out with her. The outdoor spa had been installed this summer for the benefit of her guests, but she really should make use of it more often herself.

      She sighed and sank lower, then suddenly tensed as a shadow shifted in the dark, about twenty meters away. Something, or someone, was out there. But why wasn’t Kip barking? The shape kept moving, coming closer. Oh, why had she turned off all the house lights?

      Probably she was worried about nothing. Elk roamed freely over her property. Still, there was the off chance it could be a bear…. She contemplated dashing for the house, but just then, against the backdrop of moonlight, she made out the silhouette of a lanky cowboy. She recognized him immediately from the set of his shoulders and the rhythm of his gait.

      Unbelievable.

      And there, trotting faithfully by his boots, was her dog. The traitor.

      Like a figure in a dream, the cowboy kept advancing. She couldn’t see his eyes—clouds had shifted yet again to cover the moon—but she had no doubt that he watched her every step of the way. Only when he reached the cedar skirting around the tub did he stop.

      “Well, well,” she said coolly, hiding her trembling hands under the water. According to his cousin, Jake Hartman, Dylan was supposed to be in Reno, Nevada, the latest stop in his never-ending rodeo circuit. Jake always filled her in on Dylan’s latest adventures, even though she’d let him know she couldn’t care less what her ex-fiancé was up to. Still, when Jake talked, she rarely missed a single word. And she was certain that plans of Dylan McLean’s return to Canmore had never been mentioned.

      If they had, she would’ve prepared herself. Over the past two years she’d come up with at least a dozen speeches with which to rake him over the coals. Trouble was, now that he stood just a few feet away, she couldn’t think of a single word, let alone a whole tirade.

      He closed in on her, then sat on the decking, folding his arms over the tub’s white plastic ledge. Now she could see his face clearly. His gray eyes sought to engage hers, to coax a smile, but she was in no mood to be charmed. Eventually his gaze skimmed from her face, down her neck, to the line where the water cut across the top of her chest.

      “I like your outfit,” he said. “Room in there for one more?”

      After two years of silence, you’d think he’d have managed to come up with something a little more profound.

      “The hot tub is for lodge guests only. Oh, and family and friends.”

      He registered the intended insult with a one-sided twist of his mouth. “I